Haut holds the shotgun up and points to an inscription on the barrel. It says "Rosa."
"This is his. How did you get it? Answer," he says.
Sipho squints, trying to get a better look. His eyebrows raise when he reads it.
"He went upstairs. Said better not follow."
"Let's get moving then, Corporal!" Desmond shouts. "Lopez, stay here with Sipho. Make sure he doesn't leave. We're bringing him with us when we get out of here."
Lopez nods and posts up by the door—the only way in or out of the classroom.
"Desmond, Klicker, you're with me. Let's get upstairs."
Haut loads the shotgun with a few more shells and pumps it. They leave and head for the stairwell.
Lopez looks at Sipho and offers a small smile.
"You'll be alright, man. We'll get you out of this. But I need to ask you… what you said earlier. That stuff about statues…"
Lopez swallows, his grip tightening on the barrel of his rifle. The friendly look fades from his face, replaced with fear. He didn't want to believe the kid did this. Couldn't imagine it. How could a child do something so monstrous?
"Did you do this? All those people out there—the kids, the teachers… did you kill them?"
Sipho gulps—loud enough for Lopez to hear. His face flushes. His eyes shift, and Lopez feels a change in the air, something almost tangible in the boy's expression. Sipho starts to stand, but Lopez raises his rifle.
"You need to tell me, Sipho. Right now." His finger hovers over the trigger.
"Sipho. Tell me now."
Sipho freezes, shivering. Tears well in his eyes. His face twists, and he begins to cry. He shakes his head, brings his hands to his face, then suddenly slaps himself—slams his fists into his head.
"They wouldn't stop! Wouldn't stop hitting me! Spitting on me! They push me over! I walk by and they trip me! Call me worthless! Stupid!
'Jy is 'n fout!' They said it every day!"
Lopez trembles. His aim shakes, sweat rolling from his brow.
"Sipho…"
He brings the rifle stock to his shoulder to steady it.
"I HAD ENOUGH!" Sipho screams.
He pulls a large shard of glass, wrapped in cloth for a handle, from behind him and charges. Tears stream down his face as he roars.
Lopez is caught in a moment suspended in time, his finger gently resting on the trigger. This kid—this broken, furious kid—was surrendering his life to his fear. To his pain. To the rejection and cruelty of everyone around him. He had been cast out of the world of kindness… and in return, he'd learned to hate.
Lopez drops his rifle. It swings on its sling behind him.
He catches Sipho's wrist, grabs his shirt, and throws him into the wall. The glass shard falls from Sipho's grip.
Lopez picks it up and tucks it into one of his pouches.
Sipho groans and curls up in pain.
Lopez breathes heavily. He restrains Sipho's wrists and ankles, then pulls up a chair and sits beside him.
"We'll… wait here for the… others."
His thoughts race. He removes his helmet and looks down at the boy, shaking his head.
Sipho sniffles, crying softly—whether from fear, remorse, or deep emotional damage, Lopez can't tell.
Upstairs, Haut, Desmond, and Klicker clear rooms as they move. They stay in a tight group, always within earshot, calling out when a room is secure before moving on. They work down hallways and corridors, classroom by classroom, until they reach the cafeteria.
There's writing scrawled across the double doors.
Vuilheid binne-in.
"'Filth inside,'" Klicker translates.
"More dead kids, no doubt. Fuck this place, man," Desmond mutters, gripping his rifle tighter.
Klicker pats his shoulder.
"Being scared is fine, dude. Turning around when shit gets rough—that's cowardly. And I thought we already proved you weren't a coward."
Desmond nods, swallowing hard.
Haut stacks up by the door.
"Clear it like the others. You two take left corners, I'll go right."
They nod and get into position.
"Three… two… one!" Haut counts.
He kicks the door open and rushes through. The others follow close behind.
They clear their corners—then freeze, stunned.
Piles of bodies. Children. A massacre.
"What the hell could've done this?" Desmond whispers before gagging and covering his mouth.
Klicker scans with his rifle, eyes darting across the room.
"Bullet holes everywhere. This was a slaughter. Someone came in here and just unloaded on anything that moved. Then stacked the corpses. My guess? It's a scare tactic."
Haut straightens up, still looking around.
"Any signs of recent movement?"
Desmond shakes his head. "Nothing over here."
A sound like someone stepping on broken glass comes from the kitchen area, behind the counter closest to Klicker. He snaps his rifle toward the noise and scans, taking a few careful steps forward. Haut and Desmond cover him as he moves. Klicker reaches the counter and taps the bottom of his muzzle on it.
"Come, ye brave souls, to see the brave new world," he recites—the security phrase Peter created for the squad. If separated, they'd use it to identify one another.
"We will brave the new world, shrouded in black."
Peter rises from behind the counter, pistol in one hand, knife in the other. Dried blood streaks his face. A dark, glistening stain spreads down his left leg. His armor is torn, his face soaked in sweat, his breathing heavy. Without a word, he vaults over the counter and grabs Klicker in a sudden embrace.
Klicker freezes, arms awkwardly raised, unsure how to respond to his squad leader hugging him—especially in front of the others.
"What happened, Sergeant?" he asks.
Peter pulls away and grips Klicker's shoulders, eyes wild. "The kid! Where's the kid!?"
Klicker's eyes go wide. "He's in the history classroom with Lopez. He's under guard. What's going on?"
Peter shoves past him and sprints toward the stairwell. Haut chases after him, calling out, "Peter, stop! Wait! Hold on!"
Klicker and Desmond follow close behind.
Lopez sits slouched in a chair, starting to doze. Sipho hasn't moved, except for the rise and fall of his chest. As Lopez's eyes begin to close, Sipho breaks the zip tie around his ankles. He rises. Then, with a sudden jerk, he frees his wrists too.
He steps in front of Lopez.
His fingers wrap around Lopez's throat.
Lopez jolts awake, panic surging as Sipho tightens his grip, choking off his airflow. Lopez punches, pushes, claws—but nothing works. Sipho stares down at him, expressionless.
His eyes darken. Veins rise and bulge across his face, arms, and hands—black and pulsing.
Lopez's skin pales, then purples. His thrashing weakens… then stops.
Peter bursts into the room, knife ready.
He lunges for Sipho—but falls through him, landing hard on the floor.
He scrambles to his feet, eyes wide in disbelief. Rage overtakes him.
He slashes at Sipho's neck. The blade passes through like mist.
Sipho stands still, hands behind his back. His eyes become bottomless pits, black veins crawling outward like spider legs. He grins, revealing jagged, yellow shark-like teeth.
Peter's eyes dart to Lopez, limp and purple, bloodshot eyes staring into nothing.
He screams in fury and dives for his shotgun, swings it up, and fires at Sipho—
—but the child vanishes in a puff of black smoke. Gone without a trace.
"God damn it!" Peter howls, hurling his shotgun against the wall. He grips his head with both hands, fingers digging into his scalp. "God fucking damn it!"
Haut bursts in, rifle raised. He surveys the scene quickly: Lopez, dead. Peter, unraveling. No enemy in sight.
He lowers his weapon and shakes his head, waiting for the others.
They arrive moments later, and Haut stops them at the door.
"What happened?" Desmond asks, but Haut blocks him and starts explaining.
Desmond shouts, "That little motherf—" and drives his fist through the wall, yanking it back out in frustration.
Klicker lowers his head and wipes his eyes. "Jesus, man. What the hell did we get into?"
Peter storms over to them. "Revenant! That was a fucking revenant!" He grabs Haut and Desmond by the shoulders. "We're going back to base. Now."
Haut, wide-eyed, nods. His gaze shifts past Peter to Lopez's body.
Peter catches the look. "We're bringing him with us. I'll carry him. We'll rotate if we have to."
He turns and reenters the classroom. He kneels beside Lopez, lifts him into a fireman's carry, and steps through the doorway, leading the others out. They form up around him, pulling security as they exit the school.
Outside, the sand whips through the air. A storm had rolled in fast.
Peter grits his teeth and turns to face the team.
"Your choice, guys. Stay or go?" he yells over the howling wind.
"No fucking way I'm going back in there!" Desmond shouts.
Klicker shrugs. "I don't care. But we need to decide."
Haut locks eyes with Peter. "Let's get moving. I'd rather deal with this shit than see those kids anymore."
Peter nods and turns back into the storm, leading the way. The trail they followed is already disappearing in the wind. They can only hope they make it back before nightfall.